


With the Devil by Your Side

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: A lot of sass, Baccano! Secret Santa 2016, Depression, Developing Friendships, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: Maiza finds himself with a very unexpected traveling companion as he makes his way from town to town in the New World.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morinisanpo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=morinisanpo).



> Baccano! Secret Santa gift for [morinisanpo](http://morinisanpo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who asked for something with Maiza and Ronny being bros. I’ve been wondering about how they got to know each other to begin with, so I was happy for the chance to explore that!

Bandits.

Not looking backwards, Maiza Avaro stifled a sigh and made sure his knife was where it belonged. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that buying some less flashy clothing would have been a sensible idea, but between a paranoid desire not to stick in anyone’s memory and the weight on his shoulders that grew heavier when he thought of doing anything more complex than putting one foot in front of the other, he hadn’t yet gotten around to it. And now the—pair? no, trio—behind him had taken interest in his expensive clothing and upper-class appearance. They were trying to soften their footfalls on the cobblestones, but since they failed to silence them entirely, the attempt made their intentions obvious.

Just as Maiza was wondering whether turning around and demonstrating his willingness to fight would drive them away—

Another set of footsteps fell suddenly into step at his right side. He started, his hand on his knife.

But the man now walking at his side didn’t look like a bandit; he was dressed as richly as Maiza and wore a confident smirk on his face. Even in the cold mist that drenched the area, his eyes glinted like gold.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, although his smirk proved the apology insincere.

Nevertheless, Maiza received it with a polite nod and slid his knife back into its sheath. He made no further conversation, too concerned about the bandits to even wonder how this man had managed to get so close to him. He could become their target, too, just by being at Maiza’s side.

And besides that, there was something eerily familiar about him. Had he been at the last inn? Had they passed each other in the market? Neither answer felt correct.

He stole a glance at the man to find that his smirk was still in place as he strode forward. When Maiza looked his way, the smirk grew.

“You’re being followed,” he said casually.

“…Yes, I know.”

Maiza hesitated. Was this some kind of con? Maybe this man _was_ with the bandits after all, and aimed to lower Maiza’s guard by pretending to be an ally; he might offer to help in the scuffle, only to turn on Maiza in the heat of the moment.

“It’s three of them,” the man continued, “and they must be desperate if they didn’t even question my sudden appearance, but they seem to know better than to attack in the middle of the street. If we were to casually turn into that alleyway up ahead and wait for them, I wonder whether they’d be clever enough to suspect a trap.”

“…I wonder. You’d have to be pretty stupid to fall for that,” Maiza said, a slight edge to his tone. He, at least, was not that stupid. He was about to open his mouth to suggest that they part ways here when the footsteps from behind them suddenly increased in speed and volume.

“Ah, my mistake. It seems they’re even stupider than I thought,” the man quipped, looking over his shoulder.

But Maiza had already wheeled around to face the approaching bandits. The fastest of the three got a knee to the chest, Maiza throwing him aside as the pain of broken ribs incapacitated him. The next took a stab to the arm and reared backwards with a scream. Maiza caught the third by the throat and pressed the knife to the underside of his chin, waiting for his companions to realize their predicament.

“Would you like to rethink your choice of targets?” he asked as the men got to their feet. While they did, he kept an eye on the man who had been walking with him. His head was tilted, one eyebrow raised with intrigue as he looked between Maiza and the failed bandits. …Was he not with them after all?

“Let go of him,” the man with the bleeding arm demanded.

“If you start running, I’ll consider it.”

The man with the bleeding arm and the man with the broken ribs looked at each other, and then at their trapped companion. At least they were loyal enough to their friend to hesitate, one of them reaching into his pocket for a knife. But when Maiza cleared his throat, they bolted, running as fast as the pain would allow. Maiza let them get about a block away before slicing the blade up the third bandit’s cheek and pushing him away. “Go.”

Clutching the wound, the bandit ran after his friends.

Maiza gave a short sigh, wiping blood off the knife with a handkerchief. Maybe, in the end, he had always been better suited to delinquency than alchemy. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he turned towards the richly-dressed man who was, for whatever reason, still standing there.

“Impressive,” the man said.

“Thank you, I suppose.” Maiza put his knife away. “I should apologize… I thought you might be with them.”

“No, I can see why you would assume that,” the man said. “And I’m the one who should be apologetic. I had thought to aid you, but you disposed of them much more quickly than I anticipated.”

Then his smirk widened and he spread his arms, dismissing the thought with a smug, “Well, no matter.”

Maiza’s blood went cold.

_He knew those words._

His earlier sense of familiarity became horrible recognition as he looked into arrogant gold eyes that shone like a flame.

“You’re… the demon…”

The man—the demon from the ship—gave a little bow as if he were pleased to be recognized. A cold sweat beaded on Maiza’s forehead, unpleasant in the already-damp air, and he took a half-step backwards.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked. “…Or… take my soul?”

The demon cocked his head, to all appearances puzzled. “Why would I do that, Maiza Avaro?”

“Because…”

Because everything had gone _wrong_. Maiza’s head swam with the threat of grief and despair, but those things weren’t the answer to the demon’s question.

“Because I failed to share the knowledge you gave me with the others,” he said, his voice as firm as he could manage. But then he faltered. “And because Szilard…”

“Devoured your brother and your friends,” the demon finished for him.

The smirk had faded from his face, but Maiza wouldn’t mistake the solemn color of his gaze for sympathy.

“I failed,” he insisted. “As the one who summoned you, it only makes sense for my life to be forfeit.”

The demon gave a soft snort. “I don’t care about any of that, and I have no use for the life you seem determined to offer me,” he said loftily. “You summoned me; I gave you the knowledge you asked for. The aftermath of that was always meant to be in your hands.”

Maiza’s brow furrowed. “Then why are you here?”

“I told you. You looked like you were in a spot of danger and I underestimated you. Frankly, I thought I’d have a chance to show off. …But no matter.”

That wasn’t an answer to the question Maiza had posed—not a proper one. But before he could press the demon further, he spoke again.

“I’d be happy to answer another question or two, but I can’t say I’m fond of this weather. You passed a tavern just before I joined you. Shall I buy you a drink?”

*

For some reason, Maiza let him. Maybe because he did have questions, or because it took less effort to say yes than to say no. They chose an out-of-the way corner of the tavern, and before Maiza could decide what to ask first, the demon offered a bit of information on his own. 

“My name is Ronny, by the way.”

That briefly chased all other questions out of Maiza’s head. He furrowed his brow, beset by the suspicion that the demon was mocking him. “Ronny? As in Ronald?”

“As in Ronny,” the demon corrected him patiently. “Ronny Schiatto.”

“Ronny Schiatto,” Maiza repeated, skeptical. 

“In the flesh.”

“…Are you joking with me?”

The demon snorted. “That’s a fine way to react to anyone’s name, let alone the name of someone who could end your life with a thought.”

Maiza looked at him warily. The demon’s words sounded like an obvious threat—and yet there was nothing threatening about his expression, and he only waved the thought away with another, “Well, no matter.” Then, taking a sip of his ale, he fixed Maiza with a sardonic stare. “Honestly I’m surprised you have the audacity to mock anyone’s name, Mr. Miser the Miserly.”

Maiza winced, dropping his eyes to his own ale. The criticisms of his name—his own criticisms—had far too much to do with family for him to take right now. How many times had he snapped at Gretto over his name like a petty child? How much of his life had he wasted antagonizing everyone in the city rather than _doing something_ about them? His own foolishness was so enormous that it made him sick, but maybe he deserved to have it brought to light by this demon. Maybe this was his punishment.

“What do you want?” he asked without looking up, his voice heavy.

The demon’s ironic tone had to be mockery. “I told you already. I thought you were in danger—”

“That was twenty minutes ago,” Maiza cut in, and never mind that those bandits wouldn’t have been able to _kill_  him in the first place and no one knew that better than the thing sitting across from him. “That can’t be the reason you’re still here.”

“Well, what if I’m simply curious about you?” 

“Then why don’t you just keep reading my mind?” Maiza gritted his teeth, lifting his head to glare at the demon. “Read it all and be done with it. You can learn about how terribly my father treated me and all the stupid things I did to rebel. About how Professor Dalton put me back on the straight and narrow, the one path that would lead me out of that hellhole, and I ate it right up. I did what he suggested and I didn’t let myself hear any of his warnings about the danger because I had to believe that this was going to be worth it. Look where that’s gotten me.” His mouth twisted into a grimace and his voice wavered. “My companions, my brother—they’re dead, because of what I asked of you. Is that what you’re so curious about? My regrets? I have more than enough. Why not just devour me and savor them more fully?”

His eyes stung, but he refused to blink; he continued to glare at the demon, who only returned his gaze for a long moment. Then, his face blank, the demon raised his right hand from the table. Maiza’s stomach twisted—but he didn’t flinch. If this was the end, that was fine with him. He had no desire to fight it. 

But the demon only took a sip of ale from the tankard that—was in his right hand. Had it been there to begin with? Had Maiza blinked? There was a strange continuity gap in his memory just now. Before he could resolve it, the demon lowered his tankard and spoke again.

“I’m not going to devour you,” he said, “and whether you believe me or not, I have no interest in increasing your suffering. You seem to think I’m the sort of ‘demon’ who revels in human misery. Let me remind you that I am no demon at all; that’s nothing more than a term for me you humans have dreamed up and insist on using time after time. But  _no matter_.” He gave a short sigh and frowned. “Maiza Avaro, I bear you no ill will.”

There was sincere frustration in the demon’s eyes. Maiza covered his face with one hand rather than see it and gave a weak, bitter laugh. “You’ve already done quite a bit of harm regardless.”

“Am _I_ to blame for that? It seems to me that the fault lies with human greed.”

Maiza flinched, feeling a stab of pain in his heart. He tried to drive Szilard’s unholy leer and the antagonistic glares of all the others out of his mind; it didn’t work. “You’re right,” he said with difficulty. “You’re right, we never should have— _I_ never should have—”

“That isn’t what I meant,” the demon cut in. “I have no objection to your kind seeking knowledge from me—obviously, or I wouldn’t grant it. I have no objection to human greed at all, even when its results are like what has befallen you and the other alchemists from the ship. I simply mean that when a murder is committed, the murderer is the one to blame for it. No one else.”

Silence for a long moment. In the demon’s words, Maiza heard a hint of something even more tantalizing and profane than forgiveness: blamelessness. But he knew better than to fall for that. Breathing deeply, he held fast to his guilt though its thorns dug into his heart; then, finally, he raised his eyes and looked at the being sitting across from him. Even now, he was watching Maiza, his gold eyes undeniably clever—and yet perhaps not devoid of sympathy.

“You said your name was… Ronny?”

For just a moment, the demon’s eyebrows lifted with approval. “Yes.”

“What do you want, Ronny? If you’re not here to kill me, if you’re not even here to hurt me—why _are_ you here? Is this still because I summoned you?”

“No, it’s not that.” The demon—Ronny—looked like he was considering something for a moment. Then he shrugged and explained, “Szilard Quates made it to shore yesterday.”

Maiza froze. 

 _Oh_ , he tried to say, but his throat was bone-dry and his vision swam. His hands shook where they rested on the table until he clenched them into fists.

But Ronny was waiting for his response, so he swallowed hard and did his best to speak. “Where is he?”

“I will say that he isn’t close enough that you need to worry immediately,” Ronny answered. “But he did make it to the New World. I thought you’d want to be aware.”

Yes. Yes, that was information that Maiza very much preferred to have. He breathed carefully for a moment, until the dizzying mix of fear and rage burning behind his eyes subsided. Then he regarded the man across the table hesitantly. “Are you… looking out for me?”

It seemed ridiculous, almost selfish, to believe, but no alternative explanation was coming to mind. For his part, Ronny only shrugged. 

“Effectively, I suppose I am… Well, no matter.”

Maiza’s brow furrowed and he shook his head in protest. “No, that—that _matters_. Why would you care what happens to me?”

Ronny snorted. “Either I’ve taken a shine to you,” he answered, “or I just like watching a good game of cat and mouse.”

At that, Maiza hesitated. The answer seemed like a dodge—like there was something Ronny wasn’t saying.  

Seeing Maiza’s skepticism, Ronny smirked with an amusement that seemed a bit more genuine. “Or it could be that my motivations lie somewhere else altogether… But no matter.”

Again Maiza wanted to object to the demon’s flippant catchphrase, but Ronny continued to speak before he could open his mouth.

“Regardless of my motivations, I have an offer I’d like to make, Maiza. Your brother is dead, and the other alchemists won’t want to come near you because they know you’re Szilard’s primary target. Szilard will expect you to be traveling alone. Now, if you prefer your solitude, I won’t trouble you… but if you’re interested in thwarting Szilard’s expectations, I wouldn’t mind keeping you company.”

*

And so, they became traveling companions.

They moved from town to town every few weeks—whenever Maiza’s paranoia began keeping him up at night. After that first day in the tavern, the demon provided no further information on Szilard’s movements. He did, however, take care of signing the register of each new inn, recording Maiza’s name as Matteo Costa.

“You’ll want to introduce yourself as Maiza aloud whether I’m present or not,” he instructed offhandedly, “for the sake of consistency. But if you phrase it carefully, you shouldn’t have any trouble implying that Maiza is only a nickname, and with luck Matteo may stick better in their memories.”

“…Thank you.”

It was the demon’s own rules that made the charade necessary, but Maiza recognized the generosity in what he was doing. If Szilard managed to track him this far inland, the false name would conceal further movements—and as Ronny had said, he probably wouldn’t expect to find Maiza traveling with a partner. It certainly wasn’t something Maiza had anticipated. 

And yet, he didn’t dislike it. 

On the days when Maiza couldn’t find the energy to go out looking for odd jobs to do, Ronny made conversation, asking about the inconsequential details of Maiza’s life in Lotto Valentino. Maiza found that odd, and told him so one morning.

“Can’t you simply read my mind?”

“I could.” The demon shrugged, an air of casual superiority in his posture. “But I like hearing you humans put your experiences into words. The human ability to give form to what you think and believe should not be underestimated—I admire it, personally.”

He spoke frankly, with an approving tone to his voice, but Maiza found himself wincing in return. “Like one admires a dog that’s learned to shake for table scraps, I suppose,” he muttered.

“Like a river admires a dam,” was Ronny’s cryptic response.

At that, Maiza fell silent. With each passing day, he had a better idea of when Ronny was obfuscating and when he was being sincere; this particular statement sounded sincere. Moreover, it seemed to have a weight to it beyond the superficial—a weight that encouraged Maiza to ask more. For a moment, he found himself wondering what exactly Ronny _was_ , that he would describe himself in such a way. But as soon as the question occurred to him, he felt his mind go to work, recalling and piecing together disparate ideas from the books he had spent four years poring over—and from there his skull felt crowded and heavy with obsession, and dread gripped his chest. He pushed the flood of thoughts away. Ronny was Ronny; he was the demon who had granted their wish for immortality, and now he walked at Maiza’s side as a man. Maiza could be satisfied with that much.

“I’m sorry,” he said aloud. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood to talk today.”

“Hmm… Well, no matter.” Ronny pulled out a book in a language Maiza didn’t recognize and gave Maiza his space.

Maiza realized, sometime later, that Ronny never prompted him to talk about Gretto, and he never asked about Maiza’s time with Dalton, either. So maybe he _was_ reading Maiza’s mind a little—or it was just that obvious what subjects Maiza couldn’t bear to discuss.

Curiously, Maiza found that he didn’t mind either way.

*

“Aren’t you right-handed?”

Maiza lowered the knife held in his left hand as Ronny peered at him. He gave an embarrassed shrug. “I was just thinking that it might be a good idea to be able to defend myself with my left hand if need be.”

It had occurred to him on the road to the latest inn, when another group of highwaymen had fallen into step behind them. Upon noticing them, Ronny had advised Maiza not to worry, and within a minute the would-be thieves mysteriously seemed to lose interest. But Maiza didn’t intend to rely on Ronny to defend him. If Szilard came for him—no, he had to correct that thought every time he had it. _When_ Szilard came for him, he would want his right hand free.

But it felt more foreign than he’d expected to hold the knife in his left hand, and his movements were bewilderingly clumsy no matter how much he tried to simply mirror the movements of his right hand. It would take effort to develop the skills he now required.

Ronny didn’t need to hear the whole story to understand; he nodded in acknowledgment and then took out a knife of his own.

“Would you like a sparring partner?” he offered.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. It sounds like fun, testing the skill of a notorious delinquent like you.”

A wince. “With my left hand, I don’t have any skill yet… I don’t want to waste your time.”

Ronny shrugged. “That’s fine, too. I’m over two thousand years old, Maiza; you’ll find that I can be very patient.” He settled easily into a fighting stance, his knife held in his right hand and a light smile playing at his lips. “We’ll have no need for blunted weapons.”

“No, I suppose not.” Maiza readied his own stance, not sure what to expect. He’d had fencing lessons when he was young and hated them; his knife skills, he’d picked up on his own while roaming Lotto Valentino’s streets with the Rotten Eggs, and it had been mostly a matter of instinct and efficiency. He’d never considered that the knife might be a weapon one needed _technique_ to handle.

So he was surprised when Ronny pushed forward with a direct but slow attack: something that was obviously _meant_ to be parried. Maiza redirected it with his right forearm and slid his own knife forward in answer; Ronny blocked as well. In short order they had fallen into a rhythm that was highly reminiscent of those old fencing lessons, and yet Maiza didn’t find it as detestable as he had back then. The knife felt a bit more comfortable in his left hand with each exchange.

Then, abruptly, Ronny’s eyes gleamed and he darted forward in a more urgent attack. Maiza’s breath caught at the change and he dodged, adrenaline and instinct taking over. He slashed at Ronny and felt the blade make contact before he remembered that they were supposed to be play-fighting. Then he took a step backwards, his hands held up and eyes wide in concern.

“Sorry, Ronny—”

“No matter.”

The demon was still smiling, and the few drops of blood that had spilled from his arm were already peeling themselves off Maiza’s blade and returning to his body. The cut closed and vanished; then, as Maiza watched, the split in the fabric repaired itself as well.

“You can’t harm me,” he said, predictably choosing the most arrogant possible way to say what he meant. Then he indicated Maiza’s knife. “Not even if you cheat like you did.”

Maiza realized belatedly that in his surprise, he’d shifted the knife back to his right hand before he’d attacked. He winced and sheathed the blade. “Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t even realize.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ll be working against quite a lot of muscle memory.” Ronny’s gaze was analytical. “You’ll need significant practice.”

By now, Maiza could guess where that statement was headed. He cleared his throat. “You know, that’s a pretty rude thing to say… even if you _are_ about to follow it with ‘Well, no matter, I don’t mind being your sparring partner for as long as you need one.’”

Ronny’s eyebrows shot up and he regarded Maiza with a curious look on his face. “Was that supposed to be an impression of me?”

“How’d I do?”

“…Well, no matter.”

Ronny’s attempt to swallow his smile was completely ineffective; after a moment of covering his mouth with his hand, a chuckle escaped him, and then another. Maiza just watched him, one eyebrow raised, rather baffled at the genuine amusement he was witnessing.

Finally, Ronny shook his head, still trying to wrangle the smile on his face. “This is why I find humans so fascinating. I never would have expected that from you, Maiza… Do you realize you’re smiling, too?”

Maiza started. He hadn’t realized it, but now that Ronny pointed it out, it was true: there was a genuine smile tugging at his lips, unfamiliar after so long. But self-doubt twisted his heart and melted the smile away—was he allowed to feel amusement like this, joy like this? After what he’d done—

“Well, no matter,” Ronny said, bringing him back into reality. He laid his left hand on Maiza’s shoulder, and there was something that resembled concern in his eyes. Looking back at him for just a moment, Maiza had the faint suspicion that Ronny meant to dismiss not his own reference to Maiza’s smile but the guilt that ate away at Maiza’s heart. Maiza gave a wry smile in return, once again steeling himself not to give in to the misplaced kindness.

“Thank you for the knife practice,” he said, and pulled away from Ronny’s touch.

“You’re welcome,” the demon answered. “Let’s go one more round.”

“Ronny…”

There was arrogance in Ronny’s eyes again, and a steely determination to distract Maiza that matched Maiza’s desire to withdraw. He had realized Maiza’s intention. Of course he had; he was omniscient, wasn’t he? In the end, that was all there was to it.

Maiza sighed. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly, the same old question, its answer still shrouded in mystery and misdirection.

But this time Ronny only said, “Maybe I’ve taken a shine to you,” and offered no alternate explanation. He took a step back, unsheathing his knife once more. “Come on, Maiza. One more round.”

Maiza stared at him for a long moment. That determined look hadn’t left the demon’s eyes; he probably intended to hound Maiza until he got his way. Which, honestly, was consistent with how he always acted. Maiza just couldn’t understand why “getting his way” should mean “keeping Maiza from feeling his own guilt.”

Maiza sighed.

It was an undeserved kindness from an unbelievable source, but he couldn’t hold out forever. Sometimes the desire to lay down his burdens was just too overpowering.

“One more round,” he acquiesced, and readied his knife.

*

Like the knife grasped in his left hand, the processes of living—of eating, of working, of speaking politely to strangers, of moving on—felt strange and clumsy to Maiza these days. He’d had the knack for them, once, but the rhythms he’d built up in Lotto Valentino weren’t going to help him here. When he couldn’t sleep at night, he wondered if they had ever really helped him back home, either.

But that didn’t matter now. Here, there would be a new rhythm. There would have to be.

And little by little, he sensed one developing. It was not, every day, such a chore to pull himself out of bed. It was not, every day, such a challenge to handle the small talk that kept the world moving. Some days it was, but on those days Ronny did most of the talking. ( _He_ , as far as Maiza could tell, was never at a loss for words.) And often, because Maiza hadn’t had to push himself, the next day would be easier.

Maiza noticed Ronny stepping in when he needed him to, and he was grateful. He said so. The demon generally shrugged his gratitude off—usually with the words “well, no matter,” of course, and Maiza was beginning to be able to predict when Ronny would spout his catchphrase next.

But he never realized just how integral Ronny was to the new rhythms of his life until the morning he woke up from a night of poor sleep and Ronny wasn’t in the room.

That alone shouldn’t have troubled Maiza too greatly. Although they always requested two beds, Ronny rarely seemed to sleep; more often, when Maiza woke in the middle of the night, he would find Ronny seated at the desk, poring over some book or other by low candlelight. Still other times, Ronny stepped out and returned around morning.

But in those cases, he always took the key, locking the door behind him in what Maiza suspected was a cession to his paranoia. This time, the key was still lying on the desk, and the desk had been cleared of the rest of Ronny’s things. There was no note, either. His brow furrowed, Maiza checked the door and found it locked.

That… was certainly odd.

It was within Ronny’s abilities, he supposed, to vanish from the room without using something so prosaic as the door. The question was _why_ he would do so, and in its wake teetered paranoia. _He’s abandoned you_ , said part of his mind. _He’s gone off to side with Szilard instead._

He shook his head to clear the thought away. That didn’t sound like Ronny, based on what he knew. But the paranoia remained: What if he only _thought_ he understood the demon? Was he foolish to assign human motivations to something so fundamentally inhuman?

And even if he was right and Ronny was not inclined to betray him to Szilard, somehow he couldn’t convince himself that Ronny _wasn’t_ the type to simply leave him behind one day. The demon was as capricious as anyone Maiza had ever known, and willful and sardonic. He had—more than once—suggested to Maiza that traveling together was simply a way for him to relieve boredom. If he no longer found Maiza to be a sufficient distraction from that boredom…

Maiza adjusted his glasses when they began to slip down his nose, and as he did—he noticed.

Tucked into a shadow that fell across the desk was a palm-sized figurine made of green stone. Maiza recognized it as part of a pair of Oriental-looking statuettes that Ronny sometimes took out and put on the desk, like guardian amulets. Had they been out on the desk this time? Had this one been on the desk even a few moments ago…? Maiza reached out and picked it up, more confused now than he had been before. The rest of Ronny’s things seemed to be gone, including the other figurine. Had this been forgotten? Was it a parting gift? 

“It’s not meant to be a parting gift. If you like it, you’re welcome to it, but…”

Maiza whirled around, his eyes wide. “Ronny!”

“Well, no matter.” The demon walked towards the desk and placed the matching figurine in its usual place. “These are older than I am, you know. Although not by much.”

“…Are they,” Maiza said, perfunctorily. At any other time, his head might spin at just what kind of age that implied, but right now he was still too confused by the present. He opened his mouth. “Ronny—”

“You really jumped to conclusions, didn’t you?” Ronny interrupted him to ask. He looked at Maiza sidelong and then back at the figurine. “For what it’s worth, you do seem to have the long and short of my personality figured out, and you’re right, I wouldn’t side with Szilard at this point. But you might have at least considered the possibility that I just needed a breath of fresh air.”

Maiza narrowed his eyes. There was something strange about Ronny’s attitude right now—something prickly. “Your things were gone,” he protested. “And you didn’t use the door.”

“Hm.”

At Ronny’s unusual reticence, Maiza’s confusion gave way to frustration and a hint of indignation. He put the stone figurine down on the desk next to its companion and turned to face the demon. “Would you care to tell me where you were, then? You don’t seem too pleased with my guesses.”

“I was summoned again,” Ronny said, still only looking at Maiza out of the corner of his eye.

Maiza paled. “Summoned? By whom?”

“No one who’s a threat to you,” Ronny answered, “and honestly, even that much is not information you particularly have a right to. …Well, no matter.”

He muttered the last few words, his attitude still strange. It made Maiza suspicious. He pressed, “Is that really what happened? You said it was a hundred years between the previous summoning and mine, didn’t you? And now you were just summoned again, not four months later?”

“Believe me, I am as surprised as you are,” Ronny answered, turning to face Maiza at last. “And it was a hundred and three years.”

“Fine, a hundred and three.” Maiza tried to discern what Ronny was thinking, but his face was unreadable. “Ronny, what’s going on? Are you upset with me?” 

A thought occurred to him then, and his shoulders sank even as he considered the possibility. He squared them again and looked the demon in the eye. 

“Did you not want to come back here? Am I… limiting you?”

That would make sense. It would explain Ronny’s moodiness, his disappearance and his belated reappearance. Maybe granting a stranger’s wish had reminded him of things he would rather do with his time than keep Maiza from settling into a depressed, pathetic stupor. Maybe he’d meant to leave Maiza behind for good but felt obligated to return due to Maiza’s confusion. 

But—

“You cannot limit me. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” Ronny sounded somehow smug and patient all at once. Then he took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, they were frank and serious, his habitual arrogance gone. “I should be honest. Here’s what happened, Maiza: It’s true that I was summoned. And it’s true, also, that I considered the option of not returning. I wanted to see how you would react.” 

He averted his gaze then. 

“I expected you to be relieved.”

Maiza furrowed his brow, not comprehending. “Relieved?”

“Yes, relieved.” Ronny met Maiza’s eyes again. “Regardless of whether I am to blame for it, I _am_  aware of the role I played in your brother’s death, Maiza. I am aware that my personality is not the most agreeable. I’m aware that I intruded into your life at a time when you lacked the energy and leeway that might have empowered you to refuse my offer. So I thought my disappearance might give you the opportunity to ask yourself whether you’d be better off without me around. And if you decided that was the case, I didn’t plan to trouble you by returning.”

Maiza opened his mouth to speak, but Ronny held up his left hand in a request to wait.

“I thought it was a perfectly reasonable way to go about things until I glanced back here and saw that you were, to put it bluntly, crushed. Only then did I realize I was being unfair to you by disappearing instead of consulting with you. That I was being, in short, an ass.” He sighed. “It was an embarrassing realization, and I don’t tend to handle embarrassment well. My excuse is that I haven’t spent this much time with humans in quite a while, but no matter. That _is_ just an excuse. …It was an unkind prank, Maiza, and I can tell it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable then. He held Maiza’s gaze without wavering. Maiza could only stare back, startled by the sudden change in his demeanor. Finally, he found himself rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Being apologized to by a demon must be rather unprecedented.”

“It’s not quite that, but it’s close. Well, no matter.” A smirk tried to make its way back onto Ronny’s face, but he swallowed it and reiterated, “I _am_ serious about it, Maiza.”

“Yes… I can tell.”

Maiza glanced down for a moment. It felt strange to be apologized to, but Ronny had pushed past his attempt to deflect the apology, and his deliberate humility—so out of character for him—made it clear that he meant what he was saying.

And that kind of sincerity meant a lot to Maiza.

He took a deep breath. “I appreciate the apology, Ronny. And… the sentiment, as well. I’ve spent a lot of my life going along with ideas because I don’t stop to question the effect they have on me. More than I’m particularly proud of, to tell the truth.” 

Because this was where it had gotten him: wandering from rented room to rented room in a foreign land, alone except for the presence of an omniscient, omnipotent demon. A demon who had cursed him with this disastrous immortality, who was arrogant and sarcastic and self-centered at the best of times. 

A demon whom he’d missed immediately, when he’d thought he was gone.

Realizing what that meant—what it had to mean—Maiza shook his head a little, amazed at the turns his life had taken but for once not horrified by them. He raised his eyes.

“Can I make a request, Ronny?”

“What is it?” Ronny answered promptly, his face still serious.

“If you’re planning to stick around, and you find yourself wondering about something like that again in the future, would you just ask me about it?”

There was a hint of lightness to his voice, and in response, Ronny’s lips turned up wryly, some of his usual demeanor returning. “Hmm… Well, if you’re not planning to chase me away, I guess I’ll stick around. And I suppose talking to you about things does sound more efficient than setting up little tricks and tests.”

“Well, it’s efficient, yes,” Maiza agreed awkwardly. And then, with a shrug that was a little too deliberate: “But honestly, talking to each other about things that are troubling them is just what friends do.”

Ronny’s eyebrows went up with surprise as he caught Maiza’s meaning. For a moment, he was speechless. Then he spoke with a gravitas that didn’t fully hide the smile in his narrowed eyes.

“Are you telling me we’re friends now, Maiza?”

Maiza felt the corners of his lips tug upwards with a smile, relieved by Ronny’s obvious delight. But then his smile turned sly. He looked Ronny right in the face and answered his question with another shrug and a breezy, “Well… no matter.”

And when Ronny laughed at that, Maiza found himself laughing along. 

**Author's Note:**

> The additional summoning is honestly just a bit of headcanon and really isn't relevant to the content of this fic, but if you'd like a hint to who it was, you might check out [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7904206).


End file.
